Monday, January 11, 2010
I was just contacted by a pretty woman from a Refugee Camp in Senegal. Her pa was a politician and they killed him and her ma and now she's adrift, a jewel as me set sail.
His day has come. What was said has come to pass: knowledge shall be increased; and man would be a-traveling greatly to and a-from.
There shall be wars on Earth; and there is a war in Heaven.
His death was serenaded by Time Magazine; His eulogy imparted in a rock song. Saying God Bless You is the worst thing; OMG the second.
No curse is greater, no insult more profound.
In this terrible day He is reemerging.
The flag raps in the winter wind. When it falls, the blue and stars represent Heaven, the red His blood by which we are saved, the white His grace and the Son's purity.
And in that grace all the races blend and all tribal heritage ends; all the sentimental and all the old rituals dissolve.
When those two towers fell by those idiots and the planes John had seen it and wrote that the False Prophet shall bring fire down from the sky.
And when our own idiots raced to move up their prime elections in the last great election--He shall speed things up for the elects sake, was the distant refrain.
You can call it prophecy. I prefer to look at it as one tennis stroke greeting another. Time is nothing but distance, and some days are in the long drawn out desert and some in the waterfalls with a beauty.
One day they built the temple and wrote the Book and another the Book came to life and the temple was trashed.
One day they save souls by way of the Spirit and built great churches.
One day the books were close, the books of the names of the living were closed.
His day now comes and the rocks in those churches will melt, along with them statues and their gold and all their crosses (by the way He did not have any underwear on So if you're going to sin...at least Scorsese got it right.)
The mystery of Our Father ends. He reemerges now, and the world --this bastion of death filled with the stench--and all that has the foul fingerprints of sin'll blow away.
And the few jewels which He collects shall make their stand. In humble propriety, and with humor and callous command of the tools He has rendered us in which to build our Place.
Our Place: where the love we labor and then with frightening speed comes a new Heaven.
His day has come. What was said has come to pass: knowledge shall be increased; and man would be a-traveling greatly to and a-from.
There shall be wars on Earth; and there is a war in Heaven.
His death was serenaded by Time Magazine; His eulogy imparted in a rock song. Saying God Bless You is the worst thing; OMG the second.
No curse is greater, no insult more profound.
In this terrible day He is reemerging.
The flag raps in the winter wind. When it falls, the blue and stars represent Heaven, the red His blood by which we are saved, the white His grace and the Son's purity.
And in that grace all the races blend and all tribal heritage ends; all the sentimental and all the old rituals dissolve.
When those two towers fell by those idiots and the planes John had seen it and wrote that the False Prophet shall bring fire down from the sky.
And when our own idiots raced to move up their prime elections in the last great election--He shall speed things up for the elects sake, was the distant refrain.
You can call it prophecy. I prefer to look at it as one tennis stroke greeting another. Time is nothing but distance, and some days are in the long drawn out desert and some in the waterfalls with a beauty.
One day they built the temple and wrote the Book and another the Book came to life and the temple was trashed.
One day they save souls by way of the Spirit and built great churches.
One day the books were close, the books of the names of the living were closed.
His day now comes and the rocks in those churches will melt, along with them statues and their gold and all their crosses (by the way He did not have any underwear on So if you're going to sin...at least Scorsese got it right.)
The mystery of Our Father ends. He reemerges now, and the world --this bastion of death filled with the stench--and all that has the foul fingerprints of sin'll blow away.
And the few jewels which He collects shall make their stand. In humble propriety, and with humor and callous command of the tools He has rendered us in which to build our Place.
Our Place: where the love we labor and then with frightening speed comes a new Heaven.
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